


Parties and Friendship Cookies

by Dickeybbqpit



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, F/M, Modern AU
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-27
Updated: 2019-07-27
Packaged: 2020-07-23 07:39:50
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,206
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20004688
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Dickeybbqpit/pseuds/Dickeybbqpit
Summary: A one-shot (or possible series of) built around modern AU versions my Inquisitors and @schoute's (on Tumblr) starting fresh in their relationships, juggling their friendship's, and exploring the parameters of adulthood along the way.





	Parties and Friendship Cookies

You flick your wrist back and forth, nonchalant, then stuff your fingers back beneath your soft-lined pockets.

  
Both sides of the narrow street are parallel parked bumper to bumper beneath tall oaks lining the sidewalk, and Cullen frets. He’s marked the day wrong in his calendar, and Maker knows anything put to pen between the lines is sacrament in the eyes of the schedule gods. For him to have mistaken an entire date stamp? Positively sacrilege.

  
“What if we arrive and no one else is there because the party is actually tomorrow?” repeats he for at least the seventh time since you held back the starter on your ignition a little too long in your driveway—damn battery.

  
“I imagine they’ll laugh at us—apologetically,” you add when Cullen frowns so tightly his face puckers. “And send us home as a brief topic of conversation.”

  
“Then we’ll have driven out here for nothing!” comes your chipper reply.

  
With one diffident shrug you defer to the heavy rhythm pulsing across the jagged, rooted up sidewalk, originating behind the vibrating walls of the little two-story house on the corner with about seven motorcycles and four cars double-parked in front of the garage.

  
“And in one fell swoop you have succeeded in underrating my concerns,” Cullen huffs aside the victory overtaking your relaxed expression, peeling open the old wooden door as it tells you to on the scribbled paper sign.

  
Terrible handwriting in need of a Rosetta Stone, really.

  
You are certain the door would creak if not for the sudden barrage of Trap music Sera will certainly shout at someone to change if she hasn’t already wrestled the aux chord away from whichever amateur DJ threw on their Spotify. The Red Jenny artists are a fairly deep-base heavy crew, and roll anything from the base and drum Sera blew out your left speaker with to the bluesy rock their customers sing along to for those endless hours stuck in their chairs, enduring the sharp prick and buzz of ink pens rubbing their skin raw.

  
Several of them—Charade, Johi, a friend whose name Sera deliberately drops when she’s regaling you, Cullen, and Dorian with shop antics on those evenings you’re all seated around the island counter of your apartment—live here in this old but cared for home where the bannisters are chipped, the paint peels from the crown molding, and the shag burnt-orange carpet has been pulled from the seventies through time itself and bathed relentlessly to erase any hint of stale cigarettes.

  
Of course, this evening there lingers beneath the glow of a half-century’s old lamp, a conglomerate haze of two dozen different vape pens and the residual scent of weed.

  
“Hey!” someone—a raspy, brash voice you’re certain you know—projects well above the music from what looks to be a breakfast nook turned beer pong championship field. “Cigs go out back. We all have el cancer, but let’s be considerate of those who don’t want el cancer in dos lungs. Hurry up though. My teammate here and I are still set to kick your ass in a couple rounds, m’kay, Pumpkin?”

  
A tuft of silver and a daring flash of wild eyes on a grinning face beyond a sea of people sets Cullen fidgeting beside you. “Ah.” He tries and fails to keep the tempo of his voice even, running a hand across the back of his neck. “Piper. That figures.”

  
Yes. Yes, it does. Piper is never not standing up for someone else. Piper is never not outspoken. Piper is quote on quote, “friggin’ fun,” and thus Piper is never not on her tattoo artist’s—Sera’s—invite list.

  
Such was the case even before you and Sera moved in with Cullen and Dorian.

  
Beyond the time of Cullen Rutherford’s smitten stammering and Piper Lavellan’s incessant, heavy flirtations that had thence been dubbed around the apartment as SS Piperford.

  
You snag a toothy grin in your roommate’s direction, prepared to get this ship sailing when another sporadically thrusts off her full bodyweight into your waist.

  
Springy and agile, Sera takes you by the middle with enough trajected velocity to work your feet back sideways a few paces. “Got a friendship cookie with your face on it, Carrots.”

  
The solid grip of Sera’s bare, decorative arms doesn’t slacken, surprisingly strong as she is, so Cullen in toe like the wallflower he is, you wring her in tight with your own and press on ahead under her vague direction towards whichever heap of goodies she’s stashed behind snacks and partial-service bar stocked with drugstore inventory knock-offs.

  
“Wait. Did you mean my name?” you clarify as she reaches out behind a roll of paper towels into what looks to be a heap of plastic-wrapped, frosted snickerdoodles. Threats must have flown about the crowd to leave them untouched. “And are these contraband friendship cookies, or normal, unsurprising friendship cookies? Because the last time you slipped me whatever it was I wound up debating with our lobster wine-stand, and that’s completely fine. I figure a heads-up might be nice this time though so I don’t have to count the lines on my hands in the bathroom.”

  
“Best day,” sniggers Sera and withdraws the palm-sized package marked with a sharpied ‘K’ to bestow upon you. “And no! Made them sugar-free for you in class. Should be all soft and fresh. So friggin’ open it first, Carrots. You’ll see.”

  
Unwound beneath the plastic confines you discover the concentrated etchings and lines of your own face exquisitely animated into horrifically bright colors. Your mirrored alter ego’s stretched smile will sear its way into your dreams as the new background on your phone. A tug runs through your chest and pulls the corners of your lips. “You made me a cartoon! Sera, by the most romantically-averse means possible, I am madly in love with you. I almost don’t want to eat this.”

  
Sera cackles, delighted. “Shut it, you! You better because I need to know it’s not terrible being sugarless and all.” Her sharp eyes dart sideways. “Got one for you, too, Cully-Wully.”

  
“Oh, no,” comes Cullen’s instantaneous reply.

  
“Sugar in this one,” Sera insists unwrapping another snickerdoodle with what is absolutely Cullen’s severe frown and plush, feather coat.

  
“Hah!” Your excited voice goes up an entire octave because this is absolutely one of the better gifts you’ve received—even if it’s not your own. You flash your camera nearly reflexively. “You look like cartoon Macklemore!”

  
“I despise you both!”

  
A giggle. Not from either of your own housemates, but from the stunning lady in the pretty, textured golden sundress resting off her shoulders, pouring herself a glass of water at the faucet. Dark curls spill from a loosely pinned back bun, and subtle pieces of her glimmer with jewelry you’re not so certain is of the same make you once caught Sera jamming into her pockets outside that chain store in the mall back in high school. Her presence is graceful, poised and centered amongst the crowd. Casual, but refined. Not quite mismatched because you’re certain you caught her perfectly placed amongst Piper’s crowd a moment ago, but, no, yeah, a little mismatched appearance-wise.

  
You’ve been around one another enough to be familiar and friendly. Never at one of Sera’s friend’s parties, however.

  
“Josephine,” grumbles Cullen. “Please, don’t let them think they’re funny.”

  
“I’m sorry, Cullen. You can’t change what’s imbedded into DNA.” For all you know with stem cell research, you could be totally wrong, but you could not care less.

  
Josephine’s had you mesmerized since the first time she’d teased Dorian for losing his mind over his missing lucky pen the evening before he was set to hand in his doctoral thesis—all while dangling it between her fingertips.

  
“What Little Guy said,” agrees Sera, pinching your side—Maker, you hate that she knows exactly where you’re ticklish—before being magnetized by a fresh game of flip cup fishing for an anchor.

  
You wave in an attempt to downplay just how hard your heart’s started beating. “Hi, Josie.” You’re not sure if everyone calls her that, but Dorian’s used the nickname in reference and you like the brevity and familiarity of it. “Would you like to help me make fun of Cullen?”

  
Josephine purses her lips against the rim of her red cup and squints contemplatively. “Might he keep his dignity intact?”

  
“Enough to fight back.”

  
She smiles with a flash of deviousness, and your breath is blown away. “Then I’d be happy to help.”

  
“Then if I’m going to endure this harassment I’m going fetch myself a drink,” Cullen harrumphs, stuffs the cookie you know he’s grateful for between his teeth, and flees to find a cooler filled with something simpler to appease his palette than mixed beverages.

  
 _And,_ you infer, _to make eyes at Piper, hoping she’ll wave him over._

  
Josephine shifts closer to you and leans against the counter. “Hi, Kaaras.”

  
Your heart does a little somersault. “Hi, Josie.”

  
_No! You absolute fool! Tall, handsome, and stupid! You already said that! Don’t. Be. Weird._

  
Josie is too polite to make note, but you swear her cheeks have darkened just a touch. “I don’t suppose Cullen plans on returning to us anytime soon.”

  
“No, definitely not,” you lament. “He’s going to be preoccupied staring dreamily across the room at his heart’s desire.”

  
She nods pointedly in understanding. “Ah. Piper.”

  
“Oh!” You slink beside her to clear the lane for a multitude of fellow guests hunting for someplace to break the seal. “You know?”

  
A dazzling smile. “Anything Dorian knows I do as well.“

  
“Oh!” you repeat because you’re on a roll of discovery this evening. “That is a . . . daunting scale of perception to measure up to. He literally lives in the room next to mine.”

  
“Not because he gossips,” reassures Josephine.

  
“No, he isn’t invested in caring enough. Dorian simply vents.”

  
“He tells me you try to sing him to sleep some nights.”

  
“You mean he complains to you about how unmatchable my beautiful voice is.”

  
Josie giggles and it absolutely stops your heart. “He says you have —.” she squints and for some reason, you know she’s politely reframing Dorian’s specific terms. “—an immutable quality that could be trained.”

  
“That’s a nice way of saying, ‘He says you’re pitchy and you suck, Kaaras.’”

  
Josephine pulls a scandalized expression. “I didn’t say that!”

  
“Because you’re exceptionally kind and polite, and you’ve never heard me pretend-sing,” you tease, and your arms brush.

  
She doesn’t pull away.

  
Josie hums. “I suppose I’ll have to reserve judgement until you give me a demonstration.”

  
“Exactly!” You bite the bullet harder than whatever these song lyrics rumbling the walls suggest, and gamble your luck. “As it’s such a powerful, unforgettable experience, however, I have to warn you that is a roommate and/or sixth date privilege.”

  
_And, you said it. Sort of. You made your intentions clear enough, right? You’re definitely not inviting her to move in. That’s obvious, right?_

  
“Does this count?” Josie asks suddenly, breaking through the tide of bayed mortification prepared to rush down your spine if she says no. Manicured fingers brush the bangs tempted to spill into her pretty eyes behind her ear, and she gestures at the scuffed wooden floors. It’s adorable. “One down on the date countdown if we include tonight?”

  
_Tonight? Oh, tonight! She’s not saying no._

  
“Are you looking for a terms and conditions loophole?” You gasp and clutch your chest. “Miss Montilyet, that’s cheating.”

  
“I’ve made a career out of bargaining.”

  
“Maybe so, but just because you’re slumming it with ruffians this evening—minus Dorian. Wherever Dorian is.”

  
A flick of her hand into a sea of heads. “Somewhere. Regaling a crowd probably.”

  
“Right,” you note. “Just because you’re slumming it—.”

  
“I am not ‘slumming it,’” Josephine insists. Her eyebrows have sunken in a sort of charismatically amused defiance. “Why would you say I’m ‘slumming it?’”

  
“Oh, no! I didn’t mean—. I just—.” Your mind hits the breaks harder than BMW riding your taillights that you break-checked on the freeway a little while ago. You gesture around the crowd, and at Josephine herself. “You’re so elegant and refined, Josephine, and most of us here are . . . not . . . entirely. Not that . . . that’s a bad thing. It’s just not where I’d have initially pictured running into you, but it’s really nice that I did. And. Oh, man.”

  
You’re wilting, but Josephine’s stare becomes more lighthearted by the minute. Squinted. Playful. She faces you fully now and for some reason you find that comforting.   
You breathe in deep and count backwards from ten to try again.

  
“Look, I think you’re a beautiful person. I want to spend time with you, and I think you’re deserving of a first date where we don’t have to worry about about getting beer stains down the front of our shirt because we’re surrounded by people who can’t stand up straight.” You grin and so does she. “But if you really want to tick down tonight on the path to hearing me sing you have to play me for it. And you have to play with Piper because she owes me a drink, and this might be the only way I’m getting it.”


End file.
